Monthly Archives: September 2016

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Raylene dropped, as I’d told her, squatting on her toes. She looked up at me, still in slight disbelief, and I nodded. She let her weight fall forward onto her hands, fingers and thumbs on the carpet, and kicked her legs back.

She paused in plank position, her weight resting on her toes and her straining arms. Her arse, still freshly, redly, caned and – she’d complained – burning hot, squirmed appealingly with the effort. Then she came back to squat position. She paused.

I touched her side with the cane. The heavier cane that was going to deliver the next twelve strokes. “Keep going and don’t stop for a second. And count them. Out loud. Say, ‘one!'”

“One! Master.” There was a slightly whiny tone to the second word, as if a kind master wouldn’t do this to her.

I was unsympathetic. “Just do as you’re told.”

She dropped and performed again. “Two, Master.”

“And anyway, it’s for your own good. It’ll keep you from being too stiff tomorrow.”

She nodded as she came upright again. “Three, Master.” She sounded better.

I had no idea whether the exercise would reduce muscular stiffness from her caning. No one in their right mind should take health advice from an obvious pervert.

But I did know, or strongly guess, that Raylene was enjoying the display she was making. And I knew she could feel Lynette’s cool, appraising interest, watching her move as she worked her ass and thighs. As well as my more overt pleasure in her.

“Four, Master.” She sounded a little winded. I brought the cane down on her upper hip, very gently, and she sped up.

“Five, Sir. I mean Master!”

“You’ve already got an extra punishment stroke coming, Raylene. There can be more.”

They’re as eccentric a line-up, in their various ways, as the Medieval Catholic saints.

Marie Bonaparte for example, great grandniece of the Emperor Napoleon, had such faith in the doctrine of female masochism that she “discovered” the masochistic ovum.

She believed that because eggs are female and they are beaten by the head of the penis during intercourse – Bam! Bam! Bam! – they come to enjoy that pounding. This, she concluded, is the cause of the essential masochism of women. As a Freudian true believer, Bonaparte had to believe in the essential masochism of women.

Clitoris, getting the hell out of Marie Bonaparte’s way.

In one of the more amazing demonstrations of faith that any disciple has ever given a cult leader, Bonaparte had her clitoris surgically relocated closer to her vaginal entrance, so that she complied with Freud’s directives on the superiority of vaginal orgasms.

She needed another operation later, to fix the mess made by the first operation. Her Freudian wound never healed.[i]

Sorry. It’s been a while since I posted. I’ve had a hole bored in my jawbone and a steel pin inserted into the hole. I’ll get a crown some time in December.

That was on Tuesday. The rest of Tuesday was a write-off, and so, surprisingly, was Wednesday as well. Probably because of the pain-killers more than the pain.

I was a bit more battered than I thought I was. Battered like an old car, not like a fish. Or a battery. I was the batter-ee.

Now I’m still trickling the odd bit of blood, and I’m guessing that the floor of an abatoir must taste a lot like the inside of my mouth.

But I’m feeling a lot better. Thanks!

My main memory of the whole thing was the hair, hands, mouth and breasts of the dental assistant who was using one of those slurping machines to suck out the blood and bits of bone. I suppose it’s natural to focus on the best life has to offer, at a time when most of the incoming sensory information is (literally) bloody horrible.

Maybe the reason why dentists tend to have pretty girls as assistants is so that patients, at least those who are susceptible to pretty girls, have something to distract them from the gory goings-on in their mouths.

And male dentists also like to have a pretty girl about the place, since the inside of someone’s mouth, when that person needs dental treatment, ain’t that pretty at all.

I’ve been to two women dentists, by the way, and neither of them had dental nurses. So dentistry, like political assassinations, can be done by one person acting alone.

I know that dental nursing is a skilled job, and it shouldn’t be turned into a wank fantasy.

It is required by law that this picture be captioned, “Open wide.” (I fought that law, but the law won.)

But the people who get that job tend to be young, pretty and female, which isn’t entirely fair on job-seekers who aren’t. That’s not the fault of the pretty young women; it’s more the fault of, oh, you know, patriarchy.

In some ways it’s odd that dental fetish is such a strong theme in porn. I guess it’s the hint of bondage in the chair, though the patient is held in place by the situation, not by actual bonds. There’s the appealing contrast between the angular sterility of the room, and the curved, not-sterile human body. Cold colors against warm skin, and so on. And, of course, the dentist commands and the patient obeys.

For me, no matter how charming I might think I am, I know that dental assistant has seen the inside of my mouth at its bloodiest and worst. That’s got to be a profoundly repellant sight.

There must be guys who spring out of the chair once they’ve got the all-clear, flashing their most brilliant smile at the nurse and trying to engage her in witty, flirtatious conversation. But me: Nah. Just … no.

Let’s say there is a woman standing beside my bed, or hers. She’s naked, with her wrists behind her back but not tied. She’s there because I told her to be. That’s simple, and it’s not simple at all.

She may call me “master”, habitually when we’re together, as though it’s my name and not a title. Sometimes she’ll call me that with fervor, if she’s dropped into a deeper submissive space. Or if she’s coming or about to come. Or if she needs my permission to come. So we’re, if not exactly “master and slave”, at least “master and a woman who has a master”.

There’s a suite of expectations that go with that, obligations and pleasures on both sides. I have to look after her a little harder than I’d be expected to if we were vanilla lovers.

I have a duty not to be impatient (except when I pretend because that might be hot), and to drop anything for her. I have to pay attention to her, not just sexually, but about things that are worrying her about her work, her family and so on. In sex I have an obligation to have an idea what’s going to happen, which she won’t usually know, and to make it happen, supplying the direction and more than my share of the energy.

I enjoy all of that. Generally our obligations to each other are also our pleasures.

Her obligations, to serve her master, to obey me, and to accept whatever I may choose for her discipline or her pleasure, are at the core of her pleasures and of her self. Submission is part of her, and she needs to bring it out with her lover, as I do for my dominance.

We’ve both learned that her obedience is the gateway, the door that leads to our joy and loving, exhausted sleep. So that’s why she’s standing there, waiting.

I’ve sometimes written about how things can go badly in bdsm, and about my own fuck-ups. Most of those have been due to weakness or fear on my part, or forgetting information, or sometimes just plain bad judgment. What’s usually saved me from complete disaster is that most submissives want their dominant to succeed, and will forgive most things short of insulting carelessness or malice. I’ve also written about people – well, men, in practice – who mistake bullying or violence for dominance, or use institutional power to get compliance.

Still, it’s probably true that I think of bdsm with rose-tinted glasses. For me, having a submissive lover and partner has been the source of the best pleasure, and love, in my life, along with the sheer relief of being able to be who and what I really am. While the absence of a submissive lover and partner has been the source of the greatest unhappiness and loneliness of my life. When I’m without a submissive I’m not really a dom, and so I’m missing not just her but also a vital part of me.

All of us who need bdsm in our lives have stories about how we came to acknowledge this part of ourselves to ourselves and to selected other people. The woman standing by my bed, waiting, has her story too. But I’m not her ventriloquist and I’m not going to tell it for her. But she expects that good things will happen, some of them scary-good, if she will only wait.

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Body Talk and Sexual Health

Poetry

Squat thrusts involve five steps. First, the person squats down on their toes. Second, they put their hands on the floor. Third, they shoot their legs back, so so they’re supported by their hands and toes, in the “plank” position you’d get in to do press-ups. Fourth, they bring their feet back under them, back into the squat position. Fifth, they straighten up. Then repeat.

Until the man holding the cane tells them to stop.

For most people this is a good cardio exercise that also gives the glute and quadricep muscles a bit of work. For me, it was the only exercise movement I could think of and name. For Raylene it meant a room full of people watching her breasts bounce while she awkwardly worked and showed off the muscles of her caned ass.

She looked at me. Her eyebrows arched appealingly. I pulled her shoulder before she had time to form a request. I had her half turned, and I smacked her ass, a hard fleshy impact on sore skin. So instead of begging me not to humiliate her she yelped: “Owww! Thank you, master!”

“Raylene, I didn’t ask you to thank me. But when I say ‘go’, you’re going to drop to the floor – quickly – and get started.”

Raylene looked at her bedroom floor. She’d been seeing a lot of it lately. She sounded resigned. “Yes, master.”

“Lynette. That cane under your arm. Could you pass it please?”

“Oh!” It was as if Lynette had forgotten she held the thicker length of bamboo. She grasped it like an officer with a swagger stick, and handed it to me. “One cane. Use it wisely.”

Our eyes met while the cane passed between us. “And hard, you think?”

“Oh yes. Yes, please.”

“I think so too.” I looked at Raylene, who had nothing left of her usual self-possession.

She put her hands on her head. She wanted to show she was good.

She was thoroughly disconcerted, red-faced, a muscle in her torso fluttering under the skin. I touched her belly with the bamboo. She fought to keep still, sucking her stomach in.

“Raylene, it’s the heavier cane for you, from now on, if you put a foot wrong. So mind yourself. Now: Go!”

Aware of my gaze, and Lynette’s, Raylene dropped. In every sense of the word.

That leather implement came from Cambridge University. Yes, that Cambridge, wretched hive of perversion, villainy and scum.

It was sold as a flyswat, though it’s clearly for encouraging Bad Girls (or Boys, according to taste) to behave better. Certainly that’s more or less what the model in this pic said, when she gave it to me. So I could use it on her.

What I like about this pic is largely accidental. That is, I hadn’t really been aiming to get two slightly different Gretels in the one image.

One Gretel lies near the photographer, with the flyswat resting on the small of her back to remind her why her ass and thighs are blushing so prettily. It’s also there so she knows it’s in easy reach for me, if she says or does something inadequately submissive.

The near Gretel is long and elegant. The further Gretel, in the mirror, is simply a rising swoosh, her bottom round and arched up, and her upper body and yummy thighs descending from that perfectly poised peach.

Even with my hand comforting her hips, Raylene seemed likely to continue being vocal unless stopped. So I said, “Get up, girl.”

“Oooh. Ooof. Oh Jesus, Master, that really hurt.” Raylene pushed her upper body up from the desk, and straightened up.

There was a box of tissues on her dresser. I passed them. “Clean your face up, love. And you can stop crying.”

“Thank you.” She meant for the tissues. She honked noisily. It took her four fluffy handfuls before she was ready. She stepped towards me and I held my arms out. I held her round her waist, no lower, while she snuggled in. Her belly bumped against my erection.

“Unh.” I said that. The contact had made me leak, a tiny trickle of pre-come.

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